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Kiri
Concept In fantasy fiction literature, the Eternal Champion is the creation and concept of author Michael Moorcock. "The Eternal Champion, a Hero who exists in all dimensions, times and worlds, is the one who is chosen by fate to fight for the Cosmic Balance; however, he often does not know of his role, or, even worse, he struggles against it, never to succeed. Since his role is to intervene when either Law or Chaos have gained an excess of power, he is always doomed to be surrounded by strife and destruction, although he may go through long periods of relative quiet." The Eternal Doomed Champion similarly exists in many dimensions, times, and worlds. Where disparity exists between aspects of the Eternal Champion, the Doomed Champion is always the same. Kiri; a blonde, human female fighter with characteristic extreme physical weakness and skill with a sword, always a submissive and insatiable masochist, and most often a slave. She is always topless, and her trademark costume consists of a slave collar and bracelets, and a scanty pair of shorts, bottoms, or pants appropriate to the world or setting she is part of. This centerpiece of her outfit has ranged from a breechcloth in sword and sorcery settings to a pair of latex rubber pants in modern settings, including even a pair of waterproof white plastic panty briefs in bizarre, alternative-future settings. This version of the Doomed Champion, referred to as Hyborian Kiri, wears only Nemedian Cursecaller Breeches; tight, leather short pants more appropriate worn under spellcaster robes, but which make a serviceable breechcloth and a tight-fitting pair of overpants for a barbarian slave-girl. The wearing of this undergarment, and the resulting exhibitionism and vulnerability, are typically a profound fetish for Kiri. She is often from an environment where this degree of undress is accepted or allowed, or she is personally sexually liberated enough to dare wearing it, but not always without social or legal consequences, which are usually extreme for her. Almost invariably these consequences involve excruciating torture, up to and including Kiri being put to death, for in most worlds or universes the Eternal Doomed Champion inhabits, she has the ability to revive or rise from death or near death, only to suffer it all over again. Always the victim of one ordeal or another, her misadventures, exploits, and costumes are a combination of pulp fiction, White Slavery, shokushu goukan, vorarephilia, bondage gear and cheesecake. In all worlds, the Eternal Doomed Champion is irrevocably and unimaginably doomed to a fate of eternal and unbounded physical pain and torture, both in life and in the beyond in Hades, Hell, Gehenna, or some other terrible place of punishment, some influenced by the Dungeons & Dragons Planescape setting, or Clive Barker's Hellraiser. At all times she is a doomed victim of destiny and a plaything of fate, her terrible existence preordained and written eons prior to her birth. In all worlds, Kiri ultimately learns of and accepts her dark destiny, absolutely yearning for the terrible fate that awaits her, often an eager martyr for some power or cause or another. The final fate of any one Kiri may eventually become that of infinite suffering; an aggregate of all alternate Kiris, her ultimate destiny becomes limitless and eternal torture and suffering. When confronted with opportunities to escape or postpone her destiny, in the end she always gives up this personal redemption to embrace the horrible suffering ordained to her. Sometimes this occurs because of a selfless sacrifice on the part of another Kiri is close to, but usually it is because of her own fanatical craving for pain and suffering. Because of her destiny, perverse nature and half-naked appearance, Kiri encounters an endless chain of circumstances and events that see her rendered absolutely helpless and tortured without mercy…something the barbarian slave would not have any other way. Notable Locations of Kiri’s Doom Forgotten Kiri: Also regarded as the original Kiri, she is said to originate from Anaron, an uncharted world that is said to have suffered a great cataclysm of unknown nature. She comes to worlds including Oerth and Faerûn, eventually being Mistlead in the Demiplane of Dread, known also as Ravenloft. Her ultimate fate is the consequences of a wager between the goddesses Sif and Loviatar. Her doom is to suffer eternal torture in Ondtland, the bitterly frozen realm of Loviatar on the layer of Mungoth in Gehenna. Hyborian Kiri: Which of course this page is devoted to, and has an ultimate doom related to that of the original Kiri. Primal Kiri: Born in ancient Scandia near the end of Imperial Rome’s life span, Primal Kiri is doomed to be alive at a time when the empire is perfecting the horrifying art of crucifixion through extensive practice. Sentenced to death on the cross, she is inexplicably rescued by Midnighters from 21st Century Paragon City. Said to be retrieved in time on behest of the Menders of Ouroboros through the Roman peninsula of Cimerora, because she is part of some inexplicable timeline, Kiri endures constant peril, helplessness and ignominy as a plastic pants-clad and would-be superheroine. Kiri skirts the seediest portions of Paragon City as a permanent lifestyle; when not actually seeking peril at the hands of the criminal underground, she earns coin as a fetish exhibitionist and prostitute. Her ultimate fate is to come full circle; returning to Cimerora when the time is right, and to willingly accept her cross and her horrible death. Praetorian Kiri: The mirror universe of Primal Earth, ruled by Tyrant, Praetorian Kiri is primal and primitive in nature. Victim of Praetor Tilman, A.K.A. Mother Mayhem, she is wild female animal seen on occasion in the Underground beneath Praetoria, last stronghold and city on Earth. Believed to be the result of some failed experiment by Mother, her origins and the full extent of her doom is unknown at this time. Distant Galaxy Kiri: A denizen of a galaxy far, far away, this Kiri’s existence is said to lie somewhere between the Galactic Civil War and the era of the New Republic. A slave born, she is fated to helpless and grotesque servitude of the Hutts, and to see much of the galaxy as a chained slave. Her final fate is certain: The be a victim of a Sarlacc, suffering a fate of horrifying and excruciating pain and suffering for at least one thousand years. Forgotten Planet Kiri, where the Eternal Doomed Champion is helpless denizen and victim of a post-apocalyptic world of unknown identity. What is known is that her doom takes her to imprisonment in The Wormscape; a domain of hideously distended larva, tentacles and worms of all types. Her fate includes being slowly consumed by the worms, as well as being sexually penetrated the slippery, writhing parasites in a bizarre symbiotic relationship where she serves as both food source and mate. Literary References and Influences Kiri is something of a Dark Pandora: Pandora opening her jar or box, releasing the evils of the world and keeping only hope inside the container. Whereas Kiri is fated to suffer all the pains and evils of the world, gifted with physical regeneration or even immortality so that she can both endure and survive countless ordeals. Where Pandora still retains hope Kiri has none, for nothing can really avoid her terrible destiny, but it remains important that Kiri accepts and endures her fate willingly. Comparisons to Cinderella have been made, for Kiri typically has two older stepsisters, at least one of which is always instrumental in her doom. Where Cinderella’s circumstances change to remarkable fortune, Kiri is going the opposite direction. She is also compared to Lewis Carroll’s Alice, often moving between worlds and realities even in one aspect or existence. She is influenced by John Norman’s counter-Earth saga of Gor, particularly the story of Kajira of Gor. Where Tiffany Collins of Earth is brought to Gor and installed as a faux Tatrix of Corcyrus, and actually brought for the purpose of being made a slave, dupe, and eventual victim of the ambitions of the scheming Sheila, Kiri’s scandalous fall is similar. The explicit pulp settings, stark gender roles, and characteristic excessive sex and violence of Gor and R.E. Howard’s Hyboria make Kiri a natural arrival in these worlds and settings. Fictional settings of the Eternal Doomed Champion include the distant past, sci-fi future, alternate modern world, and post-apocalyptic. Influences: Several high fantasy characters from movies and comics are a background influence for Kiri. This included the female barbarian Axa, Heavy Metal heroine Taarna, and the hyper-sexualized Druuna. She is also influenced by early era Wonder Woman, as her tendency to wear slave bracelets as part of her trademark costume, and to be subdued and helpless in bondage situation. Numerous pulp magazines scenarios are also influential, in particular those of extreme violence and elaborately contrived methods of torture and execution for female victims. Appearance Kiri is officially listed as an Aquilonian in the kingdom's records, but in reality is of mixed heritage, denoted differently because of a scribe's error, to avoid confusing her with another personage. Her mother was Brythunian, and her father at least partially Aesir. Born into slavery by a slave, as Brythunian women often are, Kiri was in effect the 'runt of the litter', birthed and raised malnourished from the start. While she endured physical labor as a young girl and was given eventual training with blades, she would remain emaciated and weakened into her adult life. Kiri's trademark costume consists of a metal slave collar, bracelets and circlet, and a skimpy pair of Nemedian styled bottoms. She is considered odd at best and barbaric at worst for her state of undress, only very rarely wearing more. Personality and Destiny Of the many adventurers that trod Hyboria, destiny plays a large part in a large number of these life paths. But of them all, perhaps none are as ill-fated, none as predestined as Kiri. While listed in Aquilonian records as of that kingdom, Kiri was only born in far eastern Aquilonia, albeit in chains. Born a Brythunian slave and birthed by a slave, she is fair and blonde as many women are from that land, highly sought after as slave stock. While temporarily wearing the Mark of Acheron and slave even to the will of Thoth-Amon, Kiri’s fate is to suffer a bondage and blackness far greater than even this. Victim of the Prophecy, she is the subject of a legend that persists in the northern lands she hails from. It involves a wager from the depths of prehistoric time between the battle maiden Morrigan and a dark goddess of unknown identity. Some think a female aspect of Al'Kiir or a goddess who usurped his portfolio of lust, pain, and death, but there is a reference to a Louhi, a goddess in Hyperborean lore that would be venerated in northern lands by a similar name, thousands of years after the Hyborian Age had faded from history. That name is Loviatar, noteworthy in some accounts as the patron of pain and torment, and Louhi/Loviatar is the likeliest adversary of the wager. While the stakes of the wager are lost in time, the outcome is certain; Morrigan lost the bet, and had to forfeit a female champion of hers to suffer the lusts and depravities of the victorious dark goddess. This victim would not just accept her horrifying fate, but would embrace it fully and eagerly. What has been learned is that the wager was of trifling nature; perhaps no more than a random casting of runes or roll of the dice. To only add further to the delicious enormity of the defeat that Kiri must endure is that she is required to suffer so horribly for nothing. For perhaps no greater purpose than to serve as depraved amusement for the gods, Kiri is handed the torturous weight of her cross, at times quite literally. Moreover, the subject of the wager would not just be any champion; it had to be a female warrior with the potential for greatness that would be fated to fall to her doom, known in lore as the Victim of the Prophecy. What has been learned is that the wager was of trifling nature; perhaps no more than a random casting of runes or roll of the dice. To only add further to the delicious enormity of the defeat that Kiri must endure is that she is required to suffer so horribly for nothing. For perhaps no greater purpose than to serve as depraved amusement for the gods, Kiri is handed the torturous weight of her cross, at times quite literally. Consulting the strands of the Fates, the battle maiden looked forward in time until she found a female barbarian slave yet to be born: Kiri, for indeed her life is enslaved by the forces of lust, pain, and death. Physically weak for a barbarian, clad in the costume of a slave, barely wearing more than a collar and undergarments, this sword-wielding she-slave has found mostly shame, torture, helplessness, and defeat in nearly all lands of Hyboria she walked, particularly in the Baracha Islands where she suffered impalement, and Stygia where she was crucified. Most remarkable of all, and unseen even by the goddesses is Kiri’s masochistic nature; her willingness to embrace her terrible destiny, and long for it. "For each future where you stand triumphant with a bloody sword or a reddened axe, you lay dead and forgotten in other fates. Cold and lifeless in the ocean…Torn in twain by steel blades on a mountain top… Black with poison in the desert sands….the visions go on and on." So said the old seer in Tortage bay, Nadini, whose divinations aided the resistance to Strom greatly by playing counterpoint to Mithrelle’s black sorcery. And most often the oracle was correct in her visions, but assuming the Phoenix Medallion and mark of Acheron to be the major player in Kiri’s destiny; she could not know the whole truth. It was not multiple fates that she glimpsed of Kiri’s future, but all events of her preordained future. Cold and lifeless in the ocean. Torn in twain by steel blades on a mountain top. Black with poison in the desert sands. Impaled on a spear by mercenaries in the villas of Tarantia. Violated and ripped to shreds in the jaws of the warg packs of Cimmeria. Helpless and penetrated by carnivorous plants. Kicking frantically and struggling for air on the end of a tightening noose in an Aquilonian village. Squealing on the walls of Tortage with a bloody impaling spear shoved up her ass, on either side of her the traitorous Proxima and Tina. Crucified on a tree in Ymir’s pass. Devoured by ice worms in the Eiglophian Mountains. Skewered and bled dry on the pikes of soldiers at Atzel's Approach. Raped and gruesomely butchered by brigands on the outskirts of Kheshatta. Spread-eagle and struggling on an ancient altar in Acheronian ruins and surrounded by Picts, the sharpened blade of a sacrificial dagger piercing her fluttering heart. Collared and stripped in Khemi by Setites, and marched to the deep desert to be crucified yet again. Struggling under the weight of the massive doom of the Prophecy, it would earn her notations in the Nemedian Chronicles and Khitani script as the Barbarian Slave of Ten Thousand Deaths. Like all that bore the Mark of Acheron, Kiri cannot die, but she can most certainly endure suffering equivalent of ten thousand deaths. One might think Kiri to be a fatalistic soul with so impossibly heavy a burden to bear, but she lives life to the fullest, with a fervor to pluck the most bittersweet of fruits Hyboria can offer her, and savor each and every one. For Kiri there are very few and rare pleasures in the world she can enjoy without at least an equal dose of suffering. Each new day is an opportunity for a captor or peril to inflict the humiliation and pain the Brythunian slave is desperate for. Combat Style Kiri uses a sword and bow in battle; unlike most barbarians she favors a combat style that favors agility and stealth only, rather than raw power, and her high constitution and pain threshold allows for her half-naked fighting style. She enters combat seeking pain and the feel of her own blood running over bared skin, and is known to often use fighting stances or tactics that have a high chance of seeing her injured. While battle lust is a well-known phenomenon on Hyboria's battlefields, for Kiri combat is a personally sexual thing. She has often climaxed in the heat of battle, and has shocked or amused both allies or enemies by often wetting herself in combat. Often weak as a kitten from the physical trauma she endures, to the point of barely being able to lift her sword in defense, Kiri has relied on drugs at times to keep her going. However, she uses nothing that would dull her pain, staunch her bleeding, of otherwise hinder her required suffering. History 'Tortage and Prologue:' While more than one adventurer in Hyboria came through the pirate port of Tortage via a wrecked Stygian slave galley, Kiri's path was a unique one. While eventually coming to fight for the resistance as many wayward slaves did, on the night Strom was overthrown she made some manner of questionable arrangement with Delia of the Red Hand, who had often taunted Kiri with the threat of impalement that allowed both to escape the city for the time being. While most that assisted the resistance fought firmly against the Red Hand, Kiri's path was a dalliance of willing torture and shady deals with Strom's servants Kiri had known a slave's chain for years prior to coming to Tortage, passing from one slave chain to another between her time spent as an adventurer. Over time, it took her to numerous corners of Hyboria, including Stygia and the Black Kingdoms. Her years as a young girl involved menial labor as soon as she was able to carry it out. Put in charge of cleaning slave kennels and animal pens, she was given the most demeaning tasks, all the while slavers would whisper explicit things in her ear, preparing her for her eventual rape once she was of age. At that point, Kiri also served her captors as such men would expect nay female slave to serve them. She would be in her late teens before sold to a passing slave caravan. Bad fortune in snowstorm would throw the caravan into chaos and allow her to escape...for a time. Kiri was known to have had a peripheral role in the recovery of the Phoenix Medallion in the Baracha Isles, where she was used as a decoy by the Tortage resistance while more capable hands got the medallion to the old seer Nadini. The tactic was risky from the beginning, and led to Kiri being subdued by Delia and Mithrelle, and swiftly taken to the torture chamber in Strom’s keep. Knowing she was fresh meat for the Red Hand from the beginning, Kiri naturally stepped into the role. Proxima promised that her peril would be as minimal as possible, but unable to get to Kiri for some time, the resistance was forced to resign her to scandalous and hideous torture and violation at the hands of her captors. What is known of this time is that Kiri was rudely introduced to some of the more sinister inventions of the Acheronian era, specifically torture instruments such as the wooden horse, the rack and the spiked Chair of Torture. Delia personally oversaw her torture, administering many of the punishments herself, with Mithrelle taking the time to watch the proceedings. The chamber echoed with Kiri’s frantic screaming and Mithrelle’s sadistic laughter. However, Kiri's orderal was not entirely in vain, for it also allowed another adventurer, the real bearer of the Phoenix Medallion, to reach Nadini. Tortage. It loomed there ahead of the prow of the old galley, under the shadow of the smoking volcano as it had always done. The sun had already dropped below the shoulder of the mountain, and this side of the island was already in deep shadow. The port was wreathed at its edges by mist curling in from the jungle, and they were arriving with perhaps another two hours before dusk. While the sailing to the pirate port was smooth enough with Strom dead and his Red Hand fallen, and she could have picked passage on any ship there, Kiri felt it fitting to return to Tortage as she had first came to it; in fetters. Her muscles throbbed, terribly ached, with the constant stroke of the oars. She had chosen a slaver galley, and resigned herself to rowing. The ship captain seemed to take delight in a willing slave on his ship. Undermanned, with not enough slaves to take all the oars, he gave Kiri an oar of her own. For days the girl had sweated and strained to keep up with the men, all stronger than her by far, and most at least two to an oar. He made sure the taskmaster had put a whip to her back often. By day the blazing sun beat down, burning her bared back as blood streamed down it in rivulets, searing the welts the gore oozed from. There were long gaps between her being watered, and with lips cracked with salty sea air and throat parched, she struggled at her oar. Whenever she lost the pace of the taskmaster’s drum, the whip fell again. The agreement was made that her sword would be returned to her when they made port, but during the voyage the crew kept it locked securely away, and she fettered to her rowing bench with heavy slave chains. Of course the captain had considered reneging on the deal. After all, he had the scantily-clad blonde in chains, her weapon safely out of reach. Whether she had willingly given herself to his whips and chains or not, she was absolutely helpless during the voyage, and she seemed to know it. It would have been a simple matter to make her slavery a permanent condition. However, his merchant side was tweaked by the nice pile of gold coins she had fished out of her breechcloth and handed him. The girl had paid through the nose for the privilege of being brutalized and whipped and put to the oars; enough gold to purchase five slaves like her in the southern markets. Who was he to argue if these were the pleasures she was so willing to hand over hefty coin and sweat and bleed for? The gold coins had been slippery and sticky as she handed them over, and captain smelled them as his men disarmed the girl and pushed her toward a rowing bench. She was already good and wet on a slaver ship, a clear sign that he'd have to start her torture early and frequently. At other times the captain had the scantily-clad blonde taken to the sterncastle and lashed to the mast with bared breasts against the rough and splintered wood. The blonde seemed to go altogether docilely to the ship's main and stand waiting for her whipping. Her Nemedian leather breeches hauled down to her knees, her buttocks scourged mercilessly until they were slickened with blood to motivate his crew and the other slaves. She didn’t last very long on her oar at all, especially afterward when even sitting was agonizing to the slave girl, but he enjoyed leaving her there until she nearly broke, and was sobbing from her cramped muscles. The sight of a sweating and distressed woman was itself motivation to hungry slaves at their own oars. When she finally tired he put her to serving the men below deck. She appeared to have much more endurance and skill toward that. Promising the men that got her the results he sought. The punishment was good for the men and it was also good for her, Kiri knew, for it would harden her to what was coming next in Tortage. It was the main reason she had done this; it would not be an easy thing to accept the impaling spear, but in the port of Tortage was an impaling spear with her name on it, and an impatient, old acquaintance who would not be happy until that spear was in her ass. She realized that probably made two of them... Finally the galley slipped into port, and dockhands caught thrown lines to tie her off as the oars were pulled up at last. Her sword returned to her, she made her way to the Thirsty Dog Inn to get a hot meal and a room to wash the caked blood off her back. She considered giving her filthy slaves’ garb a cleaning too, but it wouldn'’t be long before it was stained again anyway, so she let the breeches go. A day later her backside was still burning and raw; she had no desire the squeeze out of and back into the tight, bloodstained pants. She felt Alyssa’s eyes on her back as she descended the stairs to the common room, but only offered the Zingaran a wan smile. She might have preferred an evening with her, but reunions were not why she was here. After dusk was settled over the port, Kiri was on the prowl. Her rogues’ observation skills noted a small rune that was etched in the side of a house as she passed it: Carved with a fine blade, that was the prearranged sign. Following the orientation of the rune, it lead her past the Rum 'n Rumble and the nearby scribe’s shop, the next two runes taking her close to where the secret smuggler’s warehouse sat. She saw the mature and slender female form waiting in the alley. Haughty with noble bearing even from a distance...it made Kiri want to rush over and kneel before the woman in obedience, and she moved to do just that. “Greetings, Mistress Delia. A good day for suffering in Tortage, isn’t it?” “It is always '''a good day for suffering in Tortage, my dear, now that slaves are roaming the streets once more. Test Delia of the Red Hand and you shall always lose.” “Well Kiri knows it, Mistress”, the blonde slave replied and going to her knees in a submissive Khitian kneel before the sardonic matron. "Kiri worships and obeys, Mistress, she prays she is worthy of your whip", the collared blonde wheedled, offering a lingering kiss to each of her boots. "Missed a spot, you collared pain slut', Delia sneered, lifting the front of one boot to reveal the half-dried filth caking the sole, certainly mud from the city street and any feces that might have been ground into it. The blonde slave nodded sheepishly, but got to the task of licking every bit of filth from the boot. “Delicious. What satisfying and shameful defeat I've arranged for you", Delia smirked. “Oh you pathetic little collared whore, you just couldn’t wait to get back here, could you? You almost tripped over your own feet when you saw me.” “Yes Mistress”, the slave replied sheepishly as the older woman laughed scornfully. “And now you’re back to honor our bargain yet again.” “Of course Mistress.” “You little pain slut…this is the third time this year. You just can’t get enough love from your dear Mistress Delia, can you?” The warrior laughed coldly as she ran fingers over the slave’s head, messing her blonde locks like one would a child or a dog, pursing her lips to offer a mockery of a loving kiss to the anxious, collared blonde. Briefly Kiri dared look the former Red Hand guard in the eye, then lowered her gaze deferentially. “And what other woman has shown me love like my Mistress Delia?” Delia laughed out loud at that, grabbing a handful of that pale blonde hair and jerked her slave’s head back. “Likely very few my little pretty. You will find your kind of love in all corners of Hyboria, my pet, but who else will love you with such devotion and such skill? You must still savor the shame I put you through the night Strom fell.” “Always M-mistress...", Kiri whimpered, her eyes watering from the pain of the grip on her locks. “And how easily I defeated you too. You never even had a chance, did you girl?” "No mighty Mistress...Kiri was easily defeated." "Ah, and who exactly was it that little Kiri was defeated by?" "Kiri was easily defeated by the mighty Delia of Tortage!" "And now you're back, to taste defeat yet again, slave." "Yes Mistress." "As I commanded it, '''slave." "Yes Mistress." "Chin up, whore. You've got lots of suffering to do", Delia grinned coldly as Kiri felt a chain leash clicked onto her throat. "Thank you Mistress." "It just isn't fair, is it my little whip whore?" Delia mocked her cruelly, offering yet another puckering kiss. "Kiri is your slave, Mistress decides what is fair", the collared blonde shrugged with full resignation. "Oh, she will. Everything is more than fair for you, little Kiri. How terrible it must be to be so helpless. How lowly a thing to be so weak and to wear a leash, like the collared bitch you are." “What honor to be conquered by the Great Delia of Tortage- what privilege to wear her leash!" "But the shame of being a half-naked slave in Tortage's streets, it must be terrible to bear', Delia grinned savagely. "Kiri will walk the streets proudly with her head high. She'll let them all know she's enslaved by the great Delia!" "And be sure to tell them just how helpess you are, bitch." Mistress has power over Kiri, s-she can do with her as she wishes...” “Oh my little wanton slave, she will. She will indeed. Come along then, I can’t wait to get to this.” In seconds Kiri found her arms painfully bent back behind her, heard a length of chain rattling as it was passed through the loops in her metal bracelets. After a moment more there was the snap of a lock, and her wrists were secured tight at the small of her back, she felt on the back of her hands the slick leather of the Nemedian short pants stretched over her tight ass. Her eyes watered again as the woman took a handful of her lunar blonde mane at the back of her scalp and gripped tightly, pushing her forward with sadistic hiss. That night that Strom fell, Kiri had left the Thirsty Dog, Sigurd had locked and barred the door behind her, and the barmaid Tina was nervously watching from a side window before shuttering it as the collared blonde made her way past the central marketplace, and toward the docks. Even here the air was heavy with the smell and haze of smoke, and just up the first street the houses and shops were flickering in the glow of a fire. Not too close, but surely not far enough to give the tavern and inn staff any comfort. She had dispatched the first guard without too much trouble. He was running up the street in general direction when she stepped from the leaping shadows with a swing at his head with her sword. The Red Hand barely parried the blow, pushing the Brythunian back and drawing first blood with a slight slash across her bare belly. Clad only in a leather girdle and white silk bottoms it was only going to be the first of many wounds the collared barbarian was going to suffer that night, and a little closer in and the blade might have gutted her. Even so she battered his blade away then sank hers in between his ribs, ending the fight with a surprised scream. The next fight was a block up with the piers in sight; two Red Hands came at her, but she tumbled between them, turning the fight in toward each other. It paused their attack enough to bash one back and then land a blow on the other one’s helm, stunning him. Lacking any meaningful strength, the skinny barbarian girl had enough agility and blade skill to take the guard apart, then meeting the second with her weapon as he regained his feet and rushed her. Blades met and sparked in the darkened street, steel flashing orange as it caught the light of nearby fires. They traded blows, the man opening up a gash in her left breast with a stab that was clearly aimed for her heart, but she spun out of the thrust and took his right arm off just above the elbow. As he staggered back in disbelief, it allowed her to follow the weight of the blade around again, spinning her body and bringing the blade up under his left jawline, taking off his head. Delia had been waiting for her after that. Leaping from the shadows, she slew the lackey standing with the woman, then pressed into her, landing a few quick blows before Delia closed the distance even further. Ducking a swing at her head, the female Red Hand came up under Kiri’s blade and put a forceful knee squarely into the crotch of the blonde’s breechcloth. A strangled cry escaped the slave’s ruby lips as she met Delia’s eyes, who was grinning darkly. One hand had gone reflexively between her bared thighs, the other barely retaining a grip on her sword, the end of the blade chunking loudly into the ground. It suddenly felt so very heavy… Effortlessly Delia pushed the girl back and she fell on her ass. With a swift swipe of her whip she laid a stripe down Kiri’s right forearm, disarming her completely. Now laughing openly, Delia stood over her prey, using the side of her boot to kick one of the blonde’s legs wider, than the other. Then bringing the boot down, ground the heel into the crotch of Kiri’s breechcloth and with crushing force into her genitals, ripping a scream from the blonde that erupted up from the bottom of her lungs. Now the whip began to land, again and again. Kiri could only thrash helplessly, instinctively covering her groin while trying to fend off each slash of the barbed whip…a losing battle. Delia was no fool. The night was young, and already the fighting had gone well against the Red Hand, and many of them were already dead. The resistance was not large but boasted some powerful members that were more than deadly on their own. The Cimmerian blacksmith Turach had already slew a score of them or more, breaking the last man’s neck with his bared hands. Cramaleico had incinerated nearly half that many with a single volley of spells as they came rushing up the docks from the lighthouse to assist their comrades. Someone was going to get to Strom; Delia was enough of a tactician to see the inevitability of that. Someone with likely enough power to finally put the pirate warlord in his grave for good. Even if he could not be taken in single combat, eventually Strom would be left without his Red Hand guards. Turach could probably kill him alone, if not, Sigurd and Cramaleico assisting would surely finish the task. Delia was a survivor not just because she was cruel, but also because she was clever. She had loyally served Strom, but even her stone heart could not tolerate being in his desiccated presence for long. He had already cheated death once through some fell magic from the Acheronian power still lingering beneath their feet in the Underhalls. With Mithrelle out of the picture he had no more major allies…assuming the sorceress ever really was an ally to begin with. Delia had no intention of sacrificing herself to let Strom cheat the grave yet again, and in Kiri she saw nothing but dark opportunity. With the slave girl’s help Delia was able to escape, slipping from the gates of Tortage and slipping into the night as Kiri kept nearby resistance occupied. The collared harlot’s reward? Delia never had any intention of killing Kiri…that wouldn't be nearly as rewarding. As the looming resistance and trouble built in Tortage, Delia made no secret of her intentions to see the girl impaled, something she and Kiri traded suggestive words over on many occasions. Brutally suggestive words; there was no doubt the both of them were dancing about the desire to see her corporally punished. The slave was clearly curious…she’d seen her watching the spears on the parapet of the wall, noted the girl’s reaction to it all whenever a female resistance member was caught and skewered up there. But Delia knew how to do it and make it agonizing but non-fatal. That would be the slave’s reward; she got to live and escape with the rest of the usurpers, but Delia made her swear an oath to return periodically to face the impaling spear… As they passed the northern docks Delia clucked her tongue, running a hand over the back of Kiri’s Nemedian shorts. Even in the light of nearby torches, the entire seat of the pants was darkened with bloodstains. Delia ran fingernails into the fresh whip scars on the girl’s back, producing a gasp of pain. “Lovely. Someone did some fine whipwork on you, bitch. You must have taken the slaver ship in last evening.” “Yes Mistress…” “Smart girl. So your ass should be ready for the impaling spear. All the better…you’ll last even longer then.” She laid her hand full force over Kiri’s buttocks with a crack that echoed off a nearby wall, producing an even louder cry of pain from the slave, while tightening her grip in her hair. Delia was right of course, Kiri realized; eventually the ordeal would overwhelm her, the pain giving way to the incidental mercy of the blackness of unconsciousness. But Kiri full well knew Delia was going to get hours of fun out of her. Kiri gasped heavily as the edge of the jungle appeared ahead, partly because her mounting fear and excitement was just as swiftly approaching, partly also because the air was humid and heavy over the tropical bay of Tortage. The chain leash swayed to and fro between her bared breasts, startlingly cold in the jungle night wherever it touched naked flesh. Her sagging glands heaved rapidly and heavily atop the blonde’s bony ribcage. Weakened with anticipation, her lungs labored with every breath- the jungle air thick in her banded throat. Licking her lips torpidly, she tasted the salt from the sweat pouring off her brow. Her hair was damp and darkened from the perspiration, matted to her face and annoyingly in her eyes. The back of her hands were now sliding over the ass of her short pants wetly; sweat flowing in a torrent at the small of her back and streaming in rivulets over the pants. Half naked as she was, she was already sweating like a jungle boar- to think of how bad things would get once the wooden stake was shoved up her ass! Delia was smiling darkly as Kiri whimpered in her grip once more. Leaning in close to her, her lips brushed the lunar blonde locks below the slave’s ear. "Valeria still sits on the throne in Tortage Keep, that traitorous harlot, so I regret we won't have use of all the toys in my torture chamber, but I've still got an impaling spear waiting for you." "Kiri's ass is ready for this spear, Mistress- she'll squeal well for you." “Yes, you will. Do you remember the woman Proxima? I caught up with her a week ago, and impaled her at last. She might have been a resistance member, but she truly squealed like a brainless wench that could do no harm with that spear up her ass. You get the honor of taking the same spear she did…I didn’t even bother to clean it for you; see what your filthy ass thinks of that. Now get going slave, I want to see this even more than you do!” Out of Tortage they went, north along a cove and up into the coastal jungle where the Picts didn’t hold any territory. Torturer and slave disappeared into the shadowy green hell, and in moments there was no sign at all they had come this way. ….that is, except for the frantic screaming. 'Aquilonia and Zelata:' Kiri reached Tarantia uneventfully prior to the final battle of Tortgage, where her adventures took her to many places inside, outside and under the Aquilonian capitol. She spent weeks hunting the wolf-like darkbeasts in the Wild Lands, and taking the war to the invading Nemedians. It had been a busier night then most at the Armsman’s Tavern off the Marketplace of Tarantia’s Nobles’ District, with mercenaries interviewing new recruits for their companies, and warriors, priests and mages representing various guild houses were there for the same reason. More than a few pairs of eyes regarded the front door as the newcomer arrived. A skinny, fair-skinned barbarian, a baldric was wrapped around her chest, draped over her right shoulder and above jutting ribs and below bared breasts, holding the ornate sword at her back. Her lips were thickly smeared with vivid carmine, crooked and pursed licentiously. Sapphire blue painted her eyes. There was no doubt what the collared harlot was, it was obvious to everyone present. Bare feet slapped the grungy floor of the tavern and bared nipples stiffened in notice of the slight chill in the place. She carried a small traveling sack, and was clad only in a metal collar and a pair of tight, skimpy Nemedian-style leather bottoms that were much more for for show than any real protection. Bawdy enough to begin with, in her barbarian slave’s costume, she looked cheaper than ever. She was too emaciated, too fair-haired to be Cimmerian, but there were many tribes and lands in the north. There was at least some Brythunian in her, that was a safe bet, given the countless Brythunian blonde females that had found themselves on the slaver’s block, spirited but quality slave stock. This one didn’t seem to take issue with it, the way she strutted into the Armsman’s, brazenly flaunting her goods in that scandalous costume. The northern lands were always grim and gray, but perhaps this was how bad things had gotten now…the female barbarians were whoring themselves beyond their borders? Travius Blacktongue was up to his usual taunts. The old codger seemed to have no point to his existence other than to taunt the tavern’s patrons. There was the expected jeer the moment she walked past him, and the usual accusations of what she did in her private time. This time he was railing on about how she’d spent the night with a goat; utter lies and nonsense as usual. Alright…it hadn’t exactly been a goat, but she let the matter drop for now. Kiri regarded the mercenaries and guild masters gathered in the Armsman, all impressive adventurers and well-equipped, but it was Adretta that caught her eye. Fair, tall and stocky, and quite attractive. Their eyes met briefly and Kiri took a step forward, pushing out a temporary thought of the woman without her armor on. “Sorry”, Adretta held up a hand as soon as she saw her approach. “I’m much too busy for that right now. Try some of the other sell-swords in the back room.” “Wait just a-“ “You know this really isn’t the best time for this. Some of the other adventurers here are into role-playing harlots dressed like female fighters. ” “…Um. You got bandits in some of the villas here. Robbing the place?” “What? Yes, what of it?” The blonde barbarian idly adjusted the taut leather bottoms stretched across her backside, tugging at the material and dealing unsuccessfully with a persistent itch in the bottom of the undergarment. Biting the corner of her lower lip from the discomfort, she quickly diverted attention by thumbing the bejeweled metal collar on her pale throat. “Look, I don’t wear this collar for nothing. The nobles here call me a barbarian slave…um, that means I’ve got skills to sneak into the villa and get the gems for you. This blade is good enough to deal with most of the trouble I might bump into.” Her painted red nails tapped at the guard on her sword as she adjusted it in the baldric on her back. Of course she’d been called quite a few other things in the streets as well, not all of them repeatable just now. Adretta was forced to admit it was a fine blade. Magicked even, she was curious to know how the trollop got it. Maybe she actually could wield the thing. Adretta shook her head in disbelief, figuring it was a safe enough bet she wouldn’t paying any silver out to this one. Maybe one of the guilds might need the blade fodder; she’d probably work as cheap as she looked…assuming they wouldn’t find her sprawled in a villa with a length of sharpened steel up her ass. “Alright, whatever”, the female merc sighed, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, maybe you ought to talk to some of the guild masters before running off somewhere in...that. About the only thing you're going end up with in that getup is a sword rammed way up your ass. You're not a safe bet, so no pay up front. If you make it back in one piece, you get to collect. Understand, girl?” The barbarian nodded nonchalantly, looking at the scroll handed her, considering that might not be a bad outcome. It was marked with a red X, showing the location of Villa Verde. For most of the skilled warriors in the Armsman's, an abandoned villa overrun with Nemedians and mercenaries would amount to a good pile of gold. For Kiri, it was an exceptional opportunity to get herself raped and tortured. "Yes Mistress. I guess you better send someone in behind me then. I can keep a few of them busy while I'm getting killed, that might give someone a free run at the treasure. If it'll make things easier, I'll be sure and bend over when I'm taking the blade", the barbarian slave said the last as she walked off, the skin-tight Nemedian bottoms taut with tight creases and pulled across her buttocks as she strutted off. Adretta could scarely believe what she was seeing and hearing. "A little advice, friend", Blacktongue’s jeer called after her. "The next time you mate with your horse on a lonely night, wash his love from your hair before coming into a tavern." Well, at least the old bastard got his insults right at last, Kiri considered, running fingers through the back of her hair to find a sticky, dried glop that she’d missed. She hadn’t washed up completely after taking a good mouthful behind a local inn the previous night…she’d have to be more careful there. The Villa wasn’t far from here, north from the marketplace, and turn a few blocks into the nobles’ quarter… 'Cimmeria and the North:' Fate would eventually return Kiri to the frigid north where she grew up. Starting with Cimmeria she would push on into the Border Kingdoms and Vanaheim, dealing with or fighting people in those lands, as well as the Hyperboreans, and encountering many of the ruins of ancient Acheron that dot the north. In those far northern lands of Cimmeria and beyond, Atzel’s female fighters wore little. Women hardened both in battle and against the bitter cold of the lands they lived in, they even fought half-naked. Small armored halters and tops, short skirts and breechcloths were the norm, but made of similar northern stock, wearing nothing more than a slave collar of heavy Stygian iron and her undergarments, Kiri was scandalously stripped down in comparison. But her strength was but a fraction of the women she faced, to say nothing of the men. Extra armor would only weigh her down; only her superior reflexes and skill with her blade would save her and win the fight. The pain and sight of her bloody wounds from the last melee only fired her masochistic fervor further. A short prayer came whispered from her full ruby lips as she raised her sword to defend herself yet again; if the dark goddess was listening at all, she prayed that her coming pain would be worthy of her. Steel rang, echoing off the surrounding stone of aeons-silent Archeronian ruins. Already weakened muscles failed in a forgone test of strengths, and her female opponent slipped past her guard. Kiri felt a stabbing blade cut deep into her naked body; biting her lower lip and crying throatily with the gratifying pain 'The Sands of Stygia:' Eventually the road would lead her back to Stygia, where Kiri suffered the xenophobic denizens of Khemi and the arrogant Setite priests. A series of deep desert excursions proved to be physically and mentally arduous adventures, especially upriver to the boundless sands that included Khopshef Province. Her most notorious adventure occurred at the Pyramid of the Ancients, where Kiri was attracted to the decadent practices of the worshippers of the goddess Derketo, gaining entry to the pyramid by professing her desire to 'worship' at the site. Events already licentious and deviant turned ever darker as she met the Derketo whore Pashi, and went in search of her twin sister. In the upper levels of the pyramid, Kiri found out what was actually going on, and why most of the servant girls were not returning. Sneaking or fighting her way through guards, she found a bloodied Shali chained in a cell, not far from the torture chamber. Realizing she didn't have the strength to fight her way out with the girl once the guard noted their prisoner missing, Kiri made the fateful decision to take Shali's place. Having the girl lock her in her chains before leaving and taking her sword for safekeeping, Shali was able to carouse her way past drunken guards late in the evening, leaving Kiri to a most uncertain fate. While it has been argued that both of them might have escaped together, Kiri insisted on staying, saying it was the best way to complete the ruse. It is known that she spent weeks in the dark upper levels of the pyramid, gruesomely tortured by the men. Rumor states she was finally left for dead at the base of the pyramid, to bleed into the sands and allow the desert to claim all memory of her passing there. That Kiri survived is known, for like many who bore the Mark of Acheron, she cannot die a true death. Following her efforts to remove the Mark of Acheron from her right breast at last, Kiri became involved in the wider efforts of the clash between kindoms, even meeting with King Conan himself as he plotted the moves of his armies against that of Atzel and Thoth-Amon. 'Lords of War and The Silk Road:' Eventually the call to journey east called; the Far East to Khitai, and Kiri was fated to tread the sands of the world's wastelands once more. The going was arduous accross Turan and Hyrkanian deserts, and Kiri arrived on the edge of Khitai's Great Wall, only to find she was much too weak to face the great challenges that lie beyond the wall and within the kingdom. It was a dejected slave that turned her back on the Far East, but she made the trip to Khitai several more times, for there were caravans to guard, and merchants that paid well to do so. 'Perilous Encounters:' 'Mistress' Among the most bizarre of Kiri's adventures was within the so-called Cradle of Decay deep in the haunted Field of the Dead. There the slave encountered the Devil-Flower Yothga known only as Mistress to its victims. Another Yothga was said to be encountered by King Conan, but Kiri was not made of the Cimmerian warrior's stern stuff. Terrified at first of the yawning, glistening, and vaginal-like orifice that led to the creature's alien gullet, the power of the Mistress soon had Kiri weaponless and stripped before it, offering herself with an implacable urge to worship and serve it. Entwined in its vine-like tentacles, the Yotha quickly and rudely thrust and penetrated Kiri with its swollen stamen. Kiri began what would be many months as host to the parasitic, alien flower, her mind docile and her blood and bodily fluids bled and siphoned by the Yothga. While some time later she was freed when a band of adventurers discovered and destroyed Mistress, its hold on Kiri was strong enough that the slave-girl was determined to find another Yothga to serve as host and slave to. Even be devoured if Mistress so wished. This time for good. The Slave Huntress A place where wagons came, bearing men so they could die. That’s why the collared barbarian was here; when one had the gift (or perhaps curse) of the undying, the adventurous or depraved might seek ways to glimpse even death. She hadn’t come for glory or service to King Conan, or any other ruler. She was anticipating the pounding of her heart from her terror and lust for battle. Perhaps she’d be run through by a mercenary, or impaled on the spear of some stalwart defender, either way she had come to the Border Lands to die. Having gone there clad only in her brief bottoms and iron collar, armed only with a sword, she soon realized she was prey. She didn't know w ho her hunter's name was, only that she was known as the Slave Huntress. She couldn’t even be sure who had sent her. It might have been the Vanir, a noble she somehow crossed in Tarantia, the priests of Stygia...she even considered the witch Zelata had decided to betray her. The attractive brunette had drawn dual blades and attacked at once. Pushing Kiri back until she’d almost fallen on her backside, the maneuver had only been to test the strength and readiness of her newest contract. That the girl was out on these northern battlefields with barely a stitch on, and looked scarcely strong enough to use the sword she was carrying. The test of readiness was answered; having come to the Border Kingdoms undressed to slave’s garb, the collared blonde was here and expecting to meet a death. A death the Slave Huntress would be all too happy to provide her with. The surprise attack proved the slave’s weakness. The Slave Huntress pushed aside a pang of disappointment that the hunt would be so easy, but a good hunting cat would play and toy with her prey before making the kill. In Hyboria the strong dominated the weak. One either learned to be a power, or to know their place and bend their knees to a greater power. This blonde slave clearly knew her place in the world, and must have been a glutton for punishment to need reminding. There was a loud splatter on the ground, and both Kiri and her huntress glanced down to see the pale stream dribbling on the rocks between her bare feet. She had wet her short pants in the anticipation and excitement of the fight; she noticed the derisive smirk on the brunette’s face. Destiny on the Cross For the collared Brythunian, all roads eventually lead to the cross. It is fair and accurate to say that she is destined to endure crucifixion, in fact it is the entire purpose for her existence. Unlike most who are condemned to this horrific punishment and death, Kiri's nature and destiny means she has not just faced the cross once, but will do so again many, many times. Kiri is Tried and Sentenced to Crucifixion "Set has commanded that this degenerate creature must die for her transgressions against Stygia and its noble people…", the Setite priest let the words hang for a moment for effect, which echoed back from stone walls and pillars of the temple. She had been deprived of her weapons, but still wore the scant street clothing she had been arrested in. High fur trimmed boots that any female barbarian might be expected to be seen in; a wrapped Vanir halter that covered her breasts, and not much more. The flaxen short skirt of a Nemedian female warrior, that didn’t quite cover the gleam of slick leather from the Nemedian short pants she wore underneath. It was all part of the show, Kiri knew; soon she would be deprived of her clothing. She knew that being publicly stripped and whipped was one of the first parts of the ordeal that had been prepared for her. Exhibitionist and thrill-seeker that she was, an unenviable trait that was very likely the reason that she was standing here in the first place, listening to the proclamation of her death, she was looking forward to this part. To be naked and bleeding before the whip for her captors…none could have seen her ascent on the tower the other night. It was the terrible suffering that was to follow, once that she was reduced to her undergarments, that she had to get ready for. "How do you plead, slave?" She was snapped back from her reverie at once, eyes focusing on the haughty face of the Setite priest, skin leathery and lined by years of blazing Stygian sun. He let the last linger, employing the appellative with as much contempt and disregard as he could muster. "Guilty, Master." She said simply. It wouldn’t have mattered how she replied of course, she was dead either way, but she would play her role to the fullest, let herself be played fully by the Setites before the hour of her death. "SO…you admit your effrontery to Lord Set? Elder God and Old One. Apep, Ancient Serpent and Father." "I admit it, Master." "You realize that as guilty, it is your fate to die this day to appease Set and his people?" "I have offended Set and his people. I deserve my death, it will be an honor to die for them." "You will NOT enjoy an honorable death, slave. Only Set’s chosen will know the belly of the serpent." "That’s a shame…" "Silence, insolent naked slave! You shall die knowing indescribable pain; a death worthy of only a collared, foreign harlot such as yourself." "I’m grateful, Master." "No doubt that you are. To be condemned so is a great privilege for one so lowly…" The priest once again paused for effect, withdrawing from the condemned slave to circle about, taking in the elder priests and parishioners that were in attendance. Kiri felt very small on the small, rounded stone dais in the midst of them. Awaiting the final proclamation. She was dead…it just came down to how she would die. "For such crimes and sins, only one punishment can be sufficient. Only one penalty will bestow agony adequate to appease Set and Stygia. This slave is to be crucified. Plainly put, she is to be tortured until death!" Kiri swallowed hard, listening to the final, lingering echoes of the pronouncement as the voices of those present raised, almost in unison. "Yes, crucify her! …Crucify her!" The prosecuting priest spun about with ample dramaturgy to point at her. "You shall know the full weight of torture, as it is practiced in Stygia. You shall know what it truly means to suffer! Take her outside so the good people of Khemi may see the condemned! There she is to be stripped, upon the very steps of the temple!" The priest had barely given the command when she felt the iron grip of soldiers’ hands on her upper arms, dragging and forcing her forward, even as another pair of temple defenders pushed back a gathered crowd between them and the temple entrance. "Make way…make way!" "Crucify her!" The call came yet again. She looked at the parishioners, moving past them too quickly to affix on any one of them, but she say the scorn, the hatred in their dark eyes. The jeers came before her and followed after her…many of the women were laughing. From somewhere came the wet splat of spittle; it hit her in the side of the face. The pillared and arched entry was just before her. Across the wide marketplace she saw the dark and angled face of one of Khemi’s pyramids; and the open sand and tiles were filling with people. The word was spreading that a slave was about to be butchered, and few intended to miss it. "Crucify her!" A woman’s voice demanded, mockingly. She was dragged the final meters. "Crucify her!" "Yes…crucify me!" Her lips repeated the terrible sentence, no more than a whisper amid the clamor, but a few of the closer members of the crowd seemed to recognize the words on her lips, and if anything it only drove their fervor. At once she squinted, thrust out into the blinding sun of midday, feeling it burn her exposed flesh, scorching her scalp through lunar blonde hair. "Crucify her!" Said the dark Stygian beauty from the temple court, for a brief moment was nearly face to face with Kiri. She had come to a halt in the guards’ hands, and the woman in flowing blue robes with black hair just as flowing stood obstinate. Her eyes were hard under her dark bangs. "Crucify me…" Kiri met her gaze and responded quickly. "Crucify her!" The woman repeated, pointing a rude finger in her face. "Crucify me!" She uttered her response passionately, loud enough to be heard by all. "Crucify her!" The woman’s finger bejeweled with a gold ring pushed her chin, tipping it upward, letting the sun glint off the iron collar at her throat. Her Stygian accent was pronounced, her voice robust, much like that of haughty Issa that managed things in the Souk market lane. "Crucify me, please!!" The response was now desperate as she looked with mounting fear at the Stygian woman. The woman slapped her across the face, hard, then spit right at her. Stepping back, she laughed cruelly as the guards dragged her on once more, and Kiri felt the spittle running over her lips. Halfway down the long row of steps they paused, and Kiri stood there, weak-kneed with a guard on either side as the crowds closed before them and pressed in on all sides. Kiri is Stripped of Her Garments "Strip her!" She wasn’t sure who had said it, and it didn’t matter; she instantly felt the soldiers hands at her clothing. They lifted her a bit by the arms, enough to get her to step up with each foot as her boots were pulled off. The Vanir wrapped halter was next. She felt the cold steel of a blade against her ribs on her right side, the dagger having been inserted under the top and used to cut the garment away. The wielder was none too gentle; she felt the edge of the blade cut her flesh, then the blood was wetting her side and the sunlight was burning on her nipples the moment it struck them. Only the Nemedian skirt remained, but only for a second, as she felt irresistible fingers at the hem. The guards released her as the skirt was pulled down to her knees, and she was pushed forward. Stumbling slightly, she felt the final garment slide down her shins, until she stepped from it. She was clad only in the iron slave collar and a pair of Nemedian breeches. The brief bottoms were a tiny, scanty undergarment, and absolutely no protection, now that she had the threatening crowd closed about her. "Crucify me!" Kiri looked wildly about her, turning about to take in the full size of the crowd and the full measure of her doom. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She could barely breath, gasping in anticipation of her situation. "Crucify me!" Her head reeled; she was giddy, sweltering in the heat but also shaking with her mounting panic. She took in all the angry eyes…several more globs of spittle struck her, running down her body. "Crucify me!" Her plea was absolute desperation. Her willingness and anxiousness to suffer drove the throng mad with the desire for blood, which only enticed Kiri to beg for more torment. "Crucify me...oh gods please!" She gasped, clad only in the brief bottoms, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. Only for a split second did she see the blur of an upraised fist, then felt it land squarely in her mouth. Staggering, she wheezed as a second blow landed in her belly….her chest was tight, and she struggled to breath. Falling to the ground was only half-aware of a boot landing in her side, but while numbed to the pain she heard and felt a rib crack. She felt fingers on her left thigh, moving it aside as a boot stomped the crotch of her Nemedian short pants, kicking her in the genitals…again and again and again and again. Then there was a bright flash- Clawing at the ground in anguish, she was dimly aware of the crowd being pulled off her and pushed back. She tasted the coppery tang of blood on her split lips, felt it down the side of her head, burning her eye as it flooded the corner of it. She numbly felt the throbbing from the hard blow she had just taken in the right side of her skull. The guards moved quickly to clear her attackers, lest they tear her to pieces before they even got started with her. No, what was coming would make this mob beating seem like nothing…absolutely nothing. The death that had been contrived for her would be astonishingly, frighteningly painful and prolonged. Desert Death March The scourge had struck and again on her quivering and bleeding, naked flesh, until seemed like it was never going to stop. For a time, hazy in her tormenting pain, she considered that her torturer in his zeal would whip her to death right there and then. Every time the lashes landed the crowd cheered with bloodthirsty urgency…every time the torturer paused to rest his arm they cried with anticipated disappointment. The skin had been opened and flayed on her upper back, releasing rivulets of blood that runneled and streamed to the small of her back, pooling in the waist of her Nemedian pants. After a time the bottoms had been hauled down to her knees, and the metal tips of the scourge tails slashing and cutting into the tender, raw flesh of her ass. If the whipping itself wasn’t sufficient to wrench a few bloodcurdling screams from her lips, she’d bawled like a girl less than half her age when those skintight Nemedian bottoms were pulled and stretched back over her flaming, slick buttocks. A handful of rough salt and a sponge soaked in lemon juice was poured into the seat of her short pants for good measure. The trek upriver had been long and torturous. Unlike most journeys through the heart of Stygia, they did not travel by ship on the Styx itself, rather, they took a caravan along the riverbanks. Kiri was given a wagon all to herself; little more than an open cart, inside was stood a large iron reinforced cage sizable enough to stand within. Fetters affixed inside chained her wrists to the ceiling of the cage, from which her weight hung, in a very awkward and uncomfortable squatting position. A spiked bludgeon had been fixed to the floor of the cage, jutting upwards, and upon this Kiri had to squat, with the spiked shaft up inside her in a most shameful and hideously painful manner. Keeping her screaming and moaning from the pain caused by the constant movement and rocking of the cart on the rocky roadways. Armed Stygian soldiers went along with the Stygian torturess and some of her men, some Setite priests who were undoubtedly along to gloat once Kiri was upon the cross, likely to offer curses of Set damning her to Hell. The rest were travelers, come to witness the death of the slave girl. For leagues the caravan follow the river upstream, before turning south near Khopshef Province and to the edge of deep desert. The cage consisted of open bars, on all four walls and the roof, and the sun was merciless burning her whip-scarred body. The bars protected her from most of the whip blows, save for those of the most skilled torturers, who could strike her well enough even through the bars. On the other hand the cage was no protection from the spittle and camel dung thrown at her, and hanging in her chains in filth was among the indignities that she suffered. Once the caravan reached the point where it was to turn inland, Kiri was freed from her cage, only to learn she would be walking the final leg of her death march. The heavy patibulum, the wooden crossbeam that would be part of her instrument of torture and execution, was set on her shoulders, her wrists chained to it. With a generous watering and the whips of guard to start her off, the caravan of death started its way into the depths of the dune wasteland, Kiri’s uneasy feet following the thin scar of a gravel road as she struggled to remain upright and standing. Quotations *"My sword is for hire. My body is for your use. My blood is for spilling. My pain is the only reward I beg," ~Kiri, to Sarissa. *"Of the innumerable collared females of Hyboria, none find their suffering so necessary, perhaps none so deserve crucifixion, and none are as eager to suffer its wracking agonies as Kiri, slave whore of Brythunia. What makes her notable is that she knows she deserves it." ~The Nemedian Chronicles